Realizations
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: What do you do with two men who are in love with each other and won't admit it even to themselves? Stand alone third installment in the 'First Impressions' series, a series of character studies as friends and enemies realize what they mean to one another. Slash.
1. Sherlock

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Welcome to the third installment in the 'First Impressions' series, where some serious understandings are reached. A note about these companion pieces: if you are familiar with canon (which, if you are reading fan fic for _Sherlock_ , I assume you are), each of these stories is a standalone. If you do not feel particularly moved to read either 'First Impressions' or 'Second Glances', 'Realizations' should still make sense.

This fic takes place entirely between the final scene of 'The Great Game' and the end of 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. As usual, anything you recognize is the dialogue of the series, and this first chapter should be very familiar. Happy reading, and thank you for taking the time to drop in.

Sherlock

Terror.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance. All to distract me from _this_."

Sherlock scanned the pool, turning slowly, arm aloft with the Bruce-Partington missile plans. He wasn't truly worried about a sniper – his delightful antagonist wouldn't kill him that way. Not after the ferocious game they'd been playing.

But now, this was the last pip. Their final countdown. Moriarty would be here…he wouldn't be able to resist—

"Evening."

Sherlock felt his heart stutter in his chest. That voice…no. That small, compact body, bundled against London's nippy night air, stepping casually out of the locker room stalls. Too familiar. Achingly familiar.

" _That was…amazing."_

 _Sherlock couldn't control the flash of genuine surprise, his momentary speechlessness, the pleased look that he knew had rearranged his features. The unassuming ex-military doctor's genuine reaction was so different than the norm._

" _Do you think so?"_

" _Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."_

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Or ears. _John?_ Not John…John was…John was his flat mate, his best friend, the man who had introduced him to crap telly and made him vaguely aware that most of the human race ate three meals a day, and…and so incredibly, wonderfully _ordinary_ in so many ways that he was extraordinary.

"John…what the hell—?"

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming."

No…no, he hadn't. Sherlock Holmes had seldom been blindsided in his life, and he couldn't say that he was enjoying the total shock of the experience now.

" _I hope you'll be very happy together."_

Numbness settled around him, smothering him. Not the usual indifference of his impatience with others, but an almost paralyzing feeling of _why bother?_ If John was the designer of this game…what did that make him? Where did that leave Sherlock? An emptiness he'd never before felt took up residence in his chest, hurting behind his ribs where his heart used to sit. A vast chasm yawned at his feet and the man standing in front of him was on the other side, no longer someone he knew.

None of this was logical. John was still John and he was still Sherlock and …but the equation no longer balanced. Some unknown factor had collided into it and sent the whole world spinning.

The detective made his feet move. John could have the USB with the plans, the British government be damned. And then Sherlock would—

…would…

…his imagination, always so active, now produced only the silence of death. He could not envisage a future without John Watson. He could not summon a next step beyond handing John the flash drive.

In all likelihood, there was no need. He would hand John the plans. And then he would die. Felled by that sniper he had, seconds ago, been so sure would not fire.

As he walked towards the only man he had ever considered a friend, John's face collapsed. It was a small thing, a very slight loosening of the stiffness that had held it to neutrality, but it was paired with the blunt-fingered hands slowly coming out of his pockets, disturbing the aura of casual confidence. John opened his vest just slightly, and revealed what was underneath.

There was no time for relief that John was not a traitor, not the architect of the game but simply one of the pieces, no time for gratitude that fate was not so incredibly unkind. There was no time, not with him covered in Semtex and explosives, an unknown gunman hovering above them, but Sherlock felt it anyway. It was primary amongst the cacophony of emotions that avalanched in on him in his next few steps.

Relief, gratitude…and something entirely unexpected.

Sherlock had heard – and deleted – so many cliché descriptions of falling in love over his lifetime that he would have been hard-pressed to count them even if he hadn't shed them.

" _It makes everything in life beautiful" "Like being bathed in never-ending sunlight" "It's bliss, desire, lust, wonder" "A crazy, heart-stopping roller-coaster ride" "Like finding a missing piece of yourself"_

But even had he kept such trivia on that valuable space in his hard drive, none of the insipid phrases used would have helped him.

When Sherlock Holmes realized he was in love, that he, too, had finally succumbed to something completely ordinary, it was not wonderful, thrilling or ecstatic.

It was terrifying. He was instantly reduced to a knee-collapsing fear of a kind he had not experienced since his nightmares as a very young child.

Of course, the fact that the object of this sudden, violent understanding was standing in front of him rigged to bring down a municipal building may have been contributing to the panic.

 _I love you._

Five minutes ago – thirty _seconds_ ago – it had all been so much…fun.

" _I am on fire!"_

" _So just tell me: what are we dealing with?" "Something new."_

" _You're enjoying this aren't you? Joining the…dots."_

" _I can't be the only one who gets bored."_

Even John's earlier disappointment, while unpleasant in a way he hadn't cared to contemplate, had been only slightly difficult to shrug off in his pursuit of his quarry.

Until right now.

" _There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual,_ human _lives. Just…just so I know, do you care about that at all?"_

Yes. In a vague way. He was aware that his desire to solve crimes instead of perpetrate them put him on the side of the 'good guys', made him 'a bit good', made it possible for men like John Watson to say 'brilliant!' instead of 'psychopath!'.

Only now, here, it wasn't the indistinct, murky feeling that had always hovered at the edges of his perception, a recognition that the number of human lives saved really should mean more to him than a way of keeping score. Now the life standing in front of him, dead at a moment's notice, at a madman's whim, was the whole of his world.

Yes. When the life was John Watson's, he cared immensely. Cared so much his knees nearly buckled with the pain of it searing his veins. _"Caring is not an advantage."_

" _Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

Now he would have to be. He wasn't losing John.

"Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died." John was speaking again, those awful, foreign words that John Watson, Captain and MD, would never say. "I stopped him. I can stop…John Watson, too. Stop his heart."

Sherlock felt his own heart jump in response, beating a little harder, making breathing a little more difficult. He was looking past John, seeking the source, but he was almost level with his flat mate now, close enough to see the constriction of John's throat as he swallowed in the wake of his forced suicide threat.

"Who are you?"

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." A new voice, mocking, as its owner emerged. Sherlock stared. While not nearly as distressing, the revelation of Moriarty's true face was nearly as surprising as John's emergence had been.

Jim. Molly's boyfriend. As soon as he and John got out of this, the detective was going to have a _serious_ chat to her about who she chose to fall for in his stead.

His hand found the Browning before he'd really had time to think about it. Moriarty didn't seem to be worried. If anything, amusement sparkled in the dark eyes. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

The gun was up and steady as Sherlock replied. "Both." At least, with Moriarty in the open, John wouldn't be—

In time with his thought, the red dot of a sniper laser flickered over John's chest. Sherlock shot it a questioning look. "Don't be silly," Moriarty said amicably as he ambled towards them. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Now it was time for a bit of back-and-forth. Sherlock knew that Moriarty was a consulting criminal – what kind of consulting detective would he be if he hadn't already gotten that far? – but he also knew this type. He had told John on their very first case, _"They want an audience."_ Moriarty wanted to brag, wanted the acknowledgements of his cleverness that Sherlock had been spouting over the past days, wanted the chance to explain exactly how accomplished he was. Sherlock was happy to oblige his vanity. Listening to Moriarty and speaking in all the right pauses, feeding him the correct lines, might be boring, but the red dot was still hovering between John's heart and forehead, and as long as Moriarty was delightedly talking to Sherlock, he wasn't giving the order to kill his friend.

"You all right?" he asked John quietly. John wouldn't look at him, and the unfamiliar sensation of his stomach falling in dread threatened to distract him.

Jim finished waltzing up, got next to John's ear. Sherlock's jaw locked at the faux pose of intimacy. He didn't want Moriarty that close to John, John was _his_ , not the criminal's. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John glanced at him, jerked his head in the affirmative, and dropped his gaze again. That was enough. Sherlock thrust out his hand, USB in it. "Take it," he bit at Moriarty.

"Oh…that. The missile plan." He took it, kissed it, and Sherlock was already planning how he could shoulder past Moriarty to John and get them both the hell out of there when Moriarty announced, "Booorring! I could have got them anywhere." A careless flick of his wrist and the USB with Mycroft's precious plans was in the pool.

That was when John saw his moment. Sherlock saw his body tense, saw the readiness string the smaller man's frame, _no John!,_ it was too late to say anything, too late to move, his feet rooted to the ground as the doctor threw himself on Moriarty's back, bombs pressed between their bodies as he gripped the criminal around the neck.

"Sherlock, run!"

Jim laughed. Sherlock hated that sound. It was the laugh of an adult at a precocious child who can't really do any harm – one of pleased surprise. "Good! Very good."

"If your sniper," John was the one in Moriarty's ear now, and his voice was deadly in its commitment, "pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

Moriarty was completely unconcerned. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."

There was a firm resignation in John's eyes as Moriarty spoke. A flicker of honesty as he jerked Moriarty closer to him and the explosives. A pet. Was that really what John thought Sherlock regarded him to be? Shame, sudden and unwelcome, flooded the detective. How could John have possibly thought he was anything else—

" _Did you like it?"_

" _Ummm…no."_

—when he, Sherlock, rarely acknowledged John's value aloud, but had been so eager to praise Moriarty's villainous brilliance?

The detective still had the Browning up, but he couldn't have fired – moved – _breathed_ – if he'd wanted to. Killing Moriarty this way would bring no satisfaction, no tranquility. Not with John right there, offering his life as ransom for Sherlock's own. What had he done to deserve this from the army doctor who was, without a doubt, the best man he'd ever known?

"They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

The sniper. The red dot had vanished, which was hardly surprising. It wasn't good for business to shoot the boss. His gaze swept the echoing room. The shooter would come up somewhere…

He saw the truth in John's defeated gaze first. The red dot had transferred to his own forehead. Sherlock met John's blue eyes for a moment, shook his head. John sighed, released Moriarty, and stepped back.

"Gotcha," Moriarty crooned. He lightly brushed off his suit, straightening it as if John were no more than a rambunctious toddler who had ruffled his sleeves. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

Sherlock was tiring of this. They needed a way out and his fear for John was overwhelming, overriding the logic and swift precision his brain had always delivered, short circuiting his thought processes. _"Will caring about them help me save them?"_ No. No, it didn't. And it was _this_ life that above all he could not afford to lose.

He used boredom to cover his anxiety. "Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

"Kill you?" Moriarty winced. "Mm, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, nonononono. If you don't stop prying…I will burn you."

His eyes roved over Sherlock as if seeing beneath his skin, as if burrowing to the heart of him. The laughing jester had vanished abruptly. In his place was the madman at the heart of who Moriarty truly was. "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

Threats were easy to deal with. The Browning was completely steady, his voice totally cold. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Moriarty smiled. A calculating smile. "But we both know that's not quite true." He didn't look at John, standing just a few paces behind him. Neither did Sherlock. But the doctor's presence, and what it meant to each, hung in the air between them. Sherlock's greatest weakness. Moriarty's ultimate playing card.

Sherlock knew, with a sudden, violent clarity, what it meant to _want_ to kill another human being. To end the life in front of him, to wipe the cold smirk off that face, to be willing to pay for ending Moriarty with his own blood.

In that moment, he nearly pulled the trigger. Only the sniper stopped him – the knowledge that John's life was still forfeit.

And then Moriarty submerged the madman, uttered a few platitudes and dismissed himself as if he was leaving a business meeting in a board room, with no more concern for Sherlock and his firearm than he would have for a secretary holding a pen.

"Ciao."

"Catch…you…later," Sherlock replied slowly, gun still on Moriarty's retreating figure as he inched closer to John.

"No you won't," the mocking sing-song bounced off the tiled locker room walls. The door slammed. Sherlock waited, completely still for one…two…three…beats, then his head jerked to John, the Browning hit the pool deck, and he was on his knees in front of the other man, jerking at the ties binding the doctor to destruction.

"All right?" No answer, and panic wrought havoc with his voice as he asked again, sharply, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Now John was breathless with relief and delayed terror as Sherlock yanked loose the last bonds and stood, shoving the coat and vest violently off the doctor's shoulders, wrenching it from his arms. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sherlock…"

He couldn't stop his frantic pulling, the coat was the center of his gut-wrenching fear, and if he could just get it far away enough from John, from both of them, everything would be all right—

"Sherlock!"

And he was throwing it, bombs and all, heaving it across the floor, away from them, where at least if it went up, it wouldn't be blowing John's heart out along with it, even if it brought the building down on top of them. The doctor was gasping now, drawing deep breaths as if he hadn't been inhaling through the entire conversation.

Sherlock grabbed the gun from the deck, went to check that Moriarty was actually gone, not just waiting to see what happened next. "Are you okay?" John wheezed from where he'd folded against one of the stall columns.

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine." He was pacing frantically, less worried about Moriarty now than he was about himself. He couldn't tell John, not now, couldn't begin to think the words to describe his tumult, couldn't even look at his friend, knowing that what he felt was written all over his face, so plain that even John Watson couldn't miss it.

 _I love you._

"Fine. That uh…that thing you did, that you—" the words wouldn't come, how did you say 'thank you' and 'you scared me to death, you idiot!' and 'please never leave me' in the same sentence? "—that you offered to do, that was, um…good."

"I'm glad no one saw that." John's quiet sentence didn't register. No one saw what? "You…ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Ah. Yes. _"I'm not gay." "It's all…fine." " 'This is my friend, John Watson.' 'Colleague.'" "I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" "'Opposites attract, I suppose.' 'No, we're not—'"_

 _I love you_.

John could never know. Sherlock would never tell him.

"People do little else," he managed, and then summoned a grin, because it was expected, because John needed him to be Sherlock, unshakable in his cold disdain for the emotions and gossip that littered the small minds of the world.

And with that, John let out his final long breath, cracked a strained smile in return, and started to rise.

Only to see the red lasers centered on both of them.

"Sorry boys!" Moriarty was behind them.

"You can't be allowed to continue." Now each had a cluster of red dots. "You just can't."

Sherlock glanced down at John. John's dark blue eyes flickered briefly to the pool, then met his. The same grim resolve that had led him to leap on Moriarty's back, that had doubtless characterized his existence in Afghanistan, was in his gaze.

It was amazing, really, how quickly he had jumped to the same conclusion. Was even now preparing himself to launch them both into the water when the vest exploded. The blue eyes had conveyed the only message required:

 _I trust you_.

Sherlock hoped he had earned it.

"I would try to convince you, but, everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," Moriarty finished jovially.

Sherlock shot a last look down at his flat mate, his best friend, the only person he'd ever loved. Their eyes held for a long moment, and John tilted his head in the tiniest of nods, granting him permission.

The water was a long shot, even with John's army reflexes. But perhaps Sherlock would have time to tell him before the ceiling came down on them both.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours."

He turned, and deliberately lowered the gun to the explosive-laden vest.

888

A/N: A big thank you to my reviewers for the first two stories in this series – I truly appreciate your feedback and encouragement.


	2. Moriarty

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: The last two fics in this series followed almost exactly the same order. This will not be the case for this piece. Even though these are vignettes not strictly tied together by a tight plot line, they do take place more or less chronologically (though many of them will overlap). Thus, our villain makes his appearance here instead of at the end. Enjoy.

Moriarty

Delightful weakness.

The game was going well. Exquisitely well, as his undiscovered camera had attested. Sherlock and Watson were strung out to the end of their tethers, one with glee for the puzzles, the other in his predictable desperation, confusion and disappointment at the ticking away of each human life.

He strode into the monitoring suite. The two men should be back in 221B by now…and he hadn't sent the next clue. Would the detective be getting jittery with anticipation? Sherlock had long since figured out the pattern…he knew there should be another one.

There was little better than breaking the rules you yourself had established. It left all the other players so deliciously antsy, so fragile, knowing that they had no control…

Watson was already talking as Moriarty entered the room, gaze fixed on the lithe figure fidgeting impatiently in an armchair in the middle of the room. He did so love it when Sherlock obliged him by sitting there, dead center of the camera's shot. He had a perfect view of the detective's face.

 _"_ _So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"_

Caught? By anyone other than a Sherlock Holmes? Who, since he loved playing the game more than actually keeping law and order, could easily be persuaded not to turn him in? Oh John Watson…too simple, too boring, too unimaginative to understand.

 _"_ _I think he wants to be distracted."_ And he smiled…the swift quirk of the full mouth in complete understanding, and Moriarty laughed aloud in delight…they were so _alike_ , he and Sherlock!

 _"_ _Oh-ha_ , _"_ Watson's laugh was mirthless, dismissive. Just a shade short of the hopeless disgust in his face as he rose, unable to continue even looking at his flat mate. _"I hope you'll be very happy together."_

 _We will be, Johnny…see what he is? How totally out of your league you are?_

Sherlock didn't catch it at first, then his brain stopped, took stock of what Watson's cold words, and the unfocused quicksilver eyes shot to him, sharpening to iron. _"I'm sorry, what?"_

 _"_ _There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual,_ human _lives. Just…just so I know, do you care about that at all?"_

 _"_ _Will caring about them help save them?"_ Sherlock snapped back, startled.

 _"_ _Nope_ , _"_ John shook his head, disappointment written all over his broad face.

 _"_ _Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."_

 _"_ _And you find that easy, do you?"_

Ah…the real crux of the problem. _You find that easy._ John Watson had watched men die – under his gun when he intended it, under his knife when he was desperately trying to save them. And he had cared about – or known that he could care about – _all_ of them. To witness Sherlock's detachment now, to plumb the depths of how very much the consulting detective didn't care, didn't have the _capacity_ to care, about these civilians, these innocent Londoners who were dying for no reason other than Moriarty had decided to play God with their lives, wounded him. The pain was there, shadowing his blue eyes.

 _"_ _Yes, very,"_ Sherlock bit back. And then frowned up at him. _"Is that news to you?"_

John was shaking his head. _"No."_ He almost looked surprised at his own words, but he was smiling – the smile that substitutes for either tears or rage – and said again, _"No."_

Understanding dawned on Sherlock's face. _"I've disappointed you."_

 _"_ _That's good. That's a good deduction, yeah."_

 _"_ _Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

Moriarty grinned at John's devastated-by-disillusionment face. _That's exactly right, Johnny-boy. The army stuffs your head full of nonsense – heroes-and-glory and right-and-wrong and Queen-and-country. And dull little people like you just swill it down. You don't want to stop to understand that it's not about good and evil or sacrificing for the homeland…it's about cleverness. It's about creating your own rules to win the most complex games, to prove you're the best, to revel in the knowledge that some of us are just_ better _than the rest of you…_

This would spell the end of Sherlock's fling with the ordinary John Watson. Carefully selecting the right image, Moriarty hit _SEND._

On the live feed, Sherlock's phone _ping'_ ed and nervous fingers seized it. _"Excellent,"_ the consulting detective breathed over the new picture. Watson's face was a study in disenchantment bordering on despair, mouth drawn down, sudden exhaustion bowing his shoulders, slackening his eyes.

 _"_ _View of the Thames. South bank. Somewhere between Southwark bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers. I'll look online—"_ Th detective stopped, eyes settling on where Watson stood, hands gripped the back of his armchair, head bowed, shoulders curved in defeat.

Impatience slashed his full mouth, thinning it, then _"Oh…you're angry with me so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark."_ He went on typing furiously into his phone, clearly dismissing Watson's pained expression as irrelevant.

The eager observer did not trouble to restrain his elated laugh. Sherlock was so busily placing the nails in Watson's coffin that he hadn't even stopped to wonder what he was doing. All to the better. That mind was made for flying – no point in having a commonplace tether to keep him grounded.

His heels clicking smartly against the floor, Moriarty headed for the door to go out again. Sherlock would be on his own. It was time to change the rules yet again.

Moriarty excelled at games. It was why he always won. And he did so love winning.

888

The Irish criminal took a long sip of his coffee, rolling the rich taste around in his mouth before swallowing with relish and surging to his feet, pacing swiftly, almost manically, his smile wide.

Moran watched from where he was seated flicking through the latest issue of _Guns and Ammo_. Moriarty could sense the wariness in his subordinate's posture, but he couldn't have cared less.

Last night had been…extraordinary. It had more than made up for the confusion of the previous forty-eight hours. Because two days ago, right as they were commencing the Vermeer case, was where the plan had gone slightly awry.

The first spanner in the works had been when Watson – brimful of righteous indignation, had been on Sherlock's heels anyway.

Moriarty seated himself, leaned back in his chair, slipper-clad feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the table. That had been the puzzle right afterwards. Everything had happened as it should have. All the neatly-arrayed dominos had fallen in precisely the correct pattern – Watson had seen exactly what Sherlock was (and wasn't) – but, somehow, they had come up with the wrong picture.

Because John Watson – livid, disappointed, hopelessly outside the narrow zone he had defined as 'right' – was still just a step behind Sherlock on the Thames, staring at his flat mate in wonder as the detective unraveled the entire crime (aside from the specifics of the fake) in a matter of minutes, murmuring _"Fantastic"_.

Who was this man who – furious, and fighting with himself every step of the way – stayed with Sherlock despite the fact that all common sense dictated that he should have walked away the instant he met him?

The game changed. This time to accommodate John Watson in a small, but significant role.

Moran had done his job beautifully – nabbing Watson off the street (Really, too easy. You'd think people would be more cautious with a madman running around London dressing various innocent bystanders to kill), rigging him carefully, the doctor's deep blue eyes growing wider with each explosive device strapped methodically to his chest. When he was loaded with enough to take out a city block, Moran had stepped back, surveyed him and nodded curtly.

 _"_ _When your lover shows up, Dr. Watson, you might not even get detonated. Me? I'd take great pleasure in seeing your brains decorating the street, but the boss can be funny like that."_ Moran had meant only to twist the knife, his words the empty cruelty to reinforce the reality: John Watson's life now swayed like a pendulum from another man's hands. He could be destroyed at any step, any breath.

But even henchmen had surprising insight sometimes, even if they lacked the brains to understand what they'd hit upon.

 _Your lover._

Moran's throw-away taunt had stuck in Moriarty's brain. And the criminal had been rewarded. In light of last night's events, suddenly, it all made sense. In the messiest, most impossible, most ordinarily human way – the only way that he'd never imagined it would all turn out.

Oh, the things he had _learned_ last night at the pool! Far more than he'd ever hoped to – ever dreamed there _was_ to learn – about his favorite detective.

Moriarty was so seldom surprised…and he could count on one hand the number of times in life that he'd actually enjoyed it. But he had to admit that last night's revelations had been thoroughly entertaining.

The expression on Sherlock's face when John Watson had stepped out of the locker room…Moriarty had deliberately set himself to be able to see the unfolding drama without being seen, and was glad he'd been hidden, because he could have been knocked over with a feather. The pale, distinctive features of his adversary had mutilated with shock, and disbelief…and pain. Real, soul-wrenching anguish.

And then, when the doctor had shifted to display the Semtex…relief had painted the detective's face in startling contrast. Did Sherlock have any idea how obvious he was? How clear he had made it just how far he could fall? How _easy_ it would be to burn the heart out of him?

 _"_ _I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

So very, very untrue. It had been written in the rain-colored eyes. The whole of his painfully present heart belonged to John Watson.

 _"_ _Sherlock, run!"_

Burn John Watson, burn Sherlock. QED.

He glanced towards Moran, who was rustling his magazine. Just as well he didn't have such a…tangled relationship with his subordinates. Moran was well paid…but he wouldn't die for his boss. Which was exactly as everyone wanted it. Moriarty knew which side of the fence he controlled – everyone in his sphere was for sale to the highest bidder. They kept it clean from the nonsense of nobility. Loyalty was determined in the clear-cut figures of the bank account.

Now…now the detective had a weakness that could – and would be – shamelessly exploited. It was a pity Sherlock had to bestow his affection on such a pathetically ordinary little man, but now…now the game took on new dimensions, new layers of complexity. If Sherlock allowed himself to be tied down, there was more than one way for Moriarty to get his pleasure from the consulting detective.

Watson had been cleverer than Moriarty thought possible…maintaining the careful appearance of rigorous heterosexuality. He'd certainly had a girlfriend as boring as himself long enough to justify that assumption.

But then…the speed with which he'd jumped on Moriarty's back when he'd seen his chance, how quickly he'd released him at Sherlock's say-so when the sniper had shifted targets, the swift, unspoken communication between the two, undercutting the raw edges of their fear…

Sherlock had shown his hand. Made it so wonderfully, blindingly obvious. And Watson…for the first time Moriarty had an interest in the doctor aside from getting him out of the way.

It was time to deploy a different weapon, one that neither man could hope to defend against.

Orchestrating this new game would be so much _fun_.

888

A/N: Love it? Hate it? Review it!


	3. Mycroft

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Mycroft

Disadvantage.

"No."

He raised his eyebrows. "You haven't even heard—"

"No, Mycroft." He winced as Sherlock plucked out a discordant tune on the violin, his back still to his elder brother.

The British government heaved a sigh. "It would be an excellent way to draw Moriarty out. Easy to pique his interest, low risk—"

"Except to John."

"John Watson is a surprisingly capable and level man. He would not have survived this long with you otherwise. And he is a captain in Her Majesty's army."

" _Was_ , Mycroft, and – as long as we're pointing out the obvious – was invalidated home on account of being wounded to the point he could no longer perform that service." Another pluck that used Mycroft's eardrums to fray the ends of his nerves.

"There is no reason to think that this would be any more or less a risk to him than many of your…adventures…together."

Sherlock whirled on him, a shade too quickly for their controlled games and Mycroft _saw_. In the brief moment before the detective's face restructured itself to aloof disdain, the older Holmes witnessed everything he needed to know in the younger's face.

Even when Sherlock had arrested himself, forcing his face back towards his hallmark 'Why are you boring me with your presence?' expression, Mycroft had no difficulty reading the story written there. He had been deducing Sherlock since his seventh birthday, his brother no more than a babe in arms.

 _No, Mycroft,_ that face said. _No, because_ I _cannot bear to deliberately expose John to Moriarty again. No, because_ I _saw him not a month ago rigged to explode, and a madman's caprice is the only reason we didn't both go up with that building. No, because that explosion would have claimed his heart and mine. No, because_ I cannot lose _John Watson_.

Mycroft couldn't even find it in himself to be surprised. There was nothing revelatory here. The unassuming doctor made his brother happier than he'd been since Sherlock was a boy. It was hardly irrational or difficult to believe that his intense, focused younger brother had gone the next step and fallen in love with him.

Mycroft knew his brother could see in his face that he'd revealed too much.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he reminded him slowly.

"You think I don't know that?" The reply came low, passionate, vulnerable, and Sherlock's mouth instantly pinched in a line against it, as if it had ripped from him against his will. There would be no further explanation. Not that Mycroft expected it. Not that he needed one. His brother had already told him all he needed to know.

Sherlock's changeable, verdigris eyes met Mycroft's uncompromisingly. This was not part of their never-ending, ever-evolving game with one another. His brother would not be giving in later or pretend to protest while secretly doing the same thing himself. This was a denial. Even rarer, this was a denial Sherlock expected Mycroft to honor.

"No."

He swung back away and resumed his violin. Not angrily. Not deliberately badly to encourage his brother to get out, but a piece by Bach he had mastered long ago. The official could stay, or go. Sherlock considered the matter settled.

"By the way, I found this, the other day," Mycroft set the tiny camera down on the side table. Sherlock played a few more notes, tossed it a casual glance – and the violin screeched as the bow slid along it unheeded for an instant, the instrument placed quickly but carefully in the armchair. Sherlock picked up the miniature recording device.

"Not one of yours."

"I would hardly be advertising where mine are, would I?" Mycroft replied with a thin-lipped smile.

"Moriarty." Sherlock's voice rumbled deep, almost dangerous. Then he glared at his brother. "You only found it because you were _looking_ for places to put yours."

An eyebrow rose – as close to an admission as Sherlock was going to get – and Mycroft's dark gaze travelled to the bookcase, and the weathered copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ perched there.

"It was excellently placed. It captured the entire room, a slice of the kitchen and a bit of the entryway as well."

Sherlock stared at him coldly. Mycroft sighed. It wasn't as if he _could_ use the spot now. In fact, he hadn't because it had seemed to him that it would be too obvious. He wondered bleakly how long it had managed to go unnoticed…and whether his brother had handed over too much information in the course of its presence in 221B.

Ah well. What was, was. They would clean up afterwards when it became necessary. Sherlock might even play a role.

"Can I assume you've completely swept the flat to install your own, unnecessary spying devices?" his brother asked icily.

"You are at perfect liberty to assume whatever you wish. I cannot stop you," Mycroft fenced back. "However, in answer to the rest of that query – that was the only one we found." He did not expect his brother to thank him for finding the unauthorized camera – Sherlock was, of course, correct. He would not have discovered the device had he not been sweeping the flat for places to put his own.

Without another word, Sherlock lifted the violin, turned his back to his brother so that he could face out the window, and began to play Mendelssohn.

Mycroft shook his head and left without excusing himself, ducking into the sleek black car that awaited him outside his brother's flat.

Moriarty. Much as he hated to admit it, he had to conclude that his brother was also very likely right in his supposition. Mycroft had been aware that there was someone actually working in London (and Geneva, and Hong Kong, and Perth and at least two dozen other major cities planetwide) as a criminal mastermind, but until Moriarty had revealed himself to Sherlock, the government had had neither name nor face to put to him. It was causing a bit of a stir in both MI-5 and MI-6 that the younger Holmes was the first to have contact with him. Both branches of Intelligence were growing increasingly frustrated that Mycroft had managed to lock them out of dealing with the man, and he knew that wouldn't last forever. Eventually, if he couldn't bring Moriarty to heel, he would have to allow the others their shot.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was dead-set against cooperating. _"You have to be able to look beyond, Mycroft,"_ the voice of their long-dead father sounded in his head as he drummed his armrest. _"Beyond the concerns of a single man or woman, or even a small group of citizens. Sometimes, the allowance of smaller crimes permits the arrest of bigger ones."_

He had justified many decisions over the course of his service with those words. It had made him one of the most successful manipulators of events in the realm. Once upon a time, Sherlock had understood them, had lived by them, as well.

No longer. John Watson was now the center of Sherlock's world, and, like any child with their favorite toy – _like anyone in love,_ some part of him whispered – Sherlock refused to give him up. Even in the service of saving others' lives.

They turned a corner, and Mycroft briefly entertained the notion of carrying out his plan to draw Moriarty out anyway. He was sure Watson would agree to the plan. It carried risk, to be sure, but if the doctor didn't enjoy the adrenaline rush, he never would have ended up living in Sherlock's pocket anyway. And he had the other streak, the streak that the Holmes' brothers lacked: an iron-cast belief in the principle of sacrifice, the ideal of "Queen and Country".

No, John would not be hard to convince. His brother need not be involved until the end stages as it was – and he would carry out his part perfectly, if there was any hint that Watson was in danger.

But afterwards…Mycroft's mouth twisted with displeasure as he reluctantly discarded the scheme. If he went ahead with it now and all went well, Sherlock would never speak to him again. If anything were to go wrong and John Watson were to be killed or permanently incapacitated, Mycroft thought it very likely that the detective would come for his blood.

 _You have to be able to look beyond…_ even he had his limits. Completely alienating Sherlock would not serve him well – and he didn't _want_ to. They were hardly friends, but they were not enemies. He did not want to set his younger brother against him.

He snorted to himself, though there was nothing remotely funny about the situation. He had worried about Sherlock's addictions to nicotine, cocaine, adrenaline and the compulsive lunacy that set in whenever he was bored.

He had never, once, considered the damage to be wrought by _needing_ another human being. That his brother's whole world hinged on a single, fragile life being happy, healthy and whole.

And people thought narcotics were dangerous?

He had spent a year cautiously hoping the doctor would lift the weight of worrying about his brother from his shoulders.

Now, it appeared he had just doubled the number of people he was concerned about.

888

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	4. Lestrade

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Lestrade

Unspoken.

"God, you'd think they'd have a little respect for the dead and leave it at home," Sergeant Donovan's voice dripped condescension and disgust, and echoed faintly off the columns wrapped by garish yellow police tape.

"Did you _see_ Freak's face? I thought they were actually going to go at it over the body," Anderson's nasally jeer reached him where Lestrade was standing with two other members of the team, cataloguing the scanty evidence left behind at the crime.

Gritting his teeth and not bothering to hide the rolling of his eyes, he swung towards them. He reminded himself with every step towards them that Anderson and Donovan were both highly competent, very professional members of the Yard.

Until Sherlock Holmes got involved. Then, suddenly, everyone on site was twelve years old.

"You two. Learn anything interesting?" he ground out.

Anderson looked ready to launch into an editorial assessment of the consulting detective and his flat mate-cum-consulting partner, but Donovan read their superior much better, and cut him off smoothly.

"They're finishing their…observations, sir. Watson will have notes."

"Thank you. The forensics boys need your advice, Anderson," he commanded pointedly. "Donovan – take charge of the evidence team."

He walked on towards the body, sprawled out in an alcove just alongside the main foyer of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and just out of sight.

The team, egged on primarily by Donovan and Anderson, had been speculating wildly for more than a year now – the entire time Watson and Sherlock had been showing up at crime scenes together – that the relationship between the two men was more than the platonic (if admittedly close) friendship they flawlessly showed the world.

The D.I. wasn't sure whether he agreed or not. Sherlock was…a unique case. Anything he judged worth doing, he did intensely, with all the effort his considerable mind could bring to bear. Lestrade considered it completely unsurprising that he couldn't do friendship the 'normal' way, whatever that might be. It certainly would account for the fact – aside from his amazingly off-putting personality – that he had very few friends.

And John Watson was a military man. Used to living with men in close, uncomfortable and stressful quarters. Sherlock might not be most people's cup of tea, but an ex-army surgeon stood a better chance than most of understanding and liking him. As well as putting up with his hectic lifestyle.

The memory of Watson easily sliding his hand into Sherlock's breast pocket for his mobile presented itself with a question mark attached, and the D.I. shoved it away. If the closeness of their physical interaction was…unusual…well, did it have to _mean_ anything?

Lestrade was determined that it was _not_ his business. Watson was good for Sherlock. Thatmuch _was_ obvious. The detective had significantly toned down his abrasive offensiveness and abrupt shifts of mood since the entrance of the doctor, and even deigned to explain himself to Lestrade most of the time these days, with a minimum of patronizing huffing about it.

This resolved (at least in his own mind), he cleared the last pillar, the victim and both specialized civilians came into view…and he stopped dead.

John and Sherlock were crouched over the man's body on either side of the narrow shoulders, the consulting detective's head bent so close to the doctor that Lestrade could see several of Sherlock's stray curls brushing dark against the light brown of Watson's close-cropped hair.

The thickness of the intimacy strung between their eyes could have been sliced with a knife and served on a platter.

Sherlock was leaning over the body with his right hand extended, and as Lestrade watched – hardly daring to breathe – the older man took Sherlock's hand and guided it to the victim's neck, their gazes shifting downward simultaneously.

"Like so, Sherlock," John murmured. "You feel it there."

"Yes," the detective's low voice confirmed.

"That's the cartilage – you can't see it, but it's in the wrong place." The doctor hadn't removed his hand, his fingers pressing into Sherlock's, guiding them. The D.I. couldn't have moved, even if he'd wanted to. He was astonished. Less by the two men essentially holding hands and more by Sherlock's role as student. It was rare to see Sherlock take a lesson in anything.

"Strangulation," the dark-haired man breathed, lifting his gaze from the body. "Oh…that…changes…"

"Everything. All our assumptions," John finished, his eyes coming up to meet his flat mate's.

Their noses weren't an inch apart, their hands still pressed together over the victim's neck, and neither man moved, dark grey eyes fixed unerringly on the blue. Discomfort built in Lestrade's chest as he stared at what was, undeniably, _exactly_ what Anderson and Donovan had been claiming. He wondered if he should clear his throat and break the tableau, or just back away…

John moved, taking the decision from the copper. Watson's left hand came up under Sherlock's elbow, and both men rose gracefully in time with each other, the corpse now no more than an ignored bundle of flesh and silenced nerve endings. The doctor's gloved palm remained casually under the taller man's arm, almost as if he was tethering the detective's body to the earth as Sherlock began to speak rapidly, almost tripping over his words, his tongue no match for the speed of his mind piecing it together.

"He would have surprised the victim – someone they trusted, gotten him to come over here where they wouldn't be seen, then maneuvered himself behind him…you can tell by the position of the broken cartilage. He'd be strong – stronger than his victim by far, to carry out such an attack in a public place silently."

"What about the head wound?"

"Made afterwards…immediately, which is what makes it so hard to catch, he did it deliberately, to throw the police off, but this murder wasn't accomplished by bashing in the back of his head."

"Who?" John prompted.

At this, Sherlock's eyes darted downward, taking in the body again. He moved away from John, pacing around it. "No idea about the specifics without further evidence…looking for a male… at least 175 pounds, lifts weights on a daily basis, look for dog hair on the cuffs of his sleeves – the collar here has white hair. Probably west highland terrier. Deliberate – no stranger to murder, willing to be up close and personal, so a history of domestic violence at the very least."

"Brilliant," John said softly, the faint smile he always wore when listening to Sherlock deduce (Lestrade knew that John knew it wasn't right to smile at a murder, but propriety was never quite enough to restrain the obvious admiration he felt for his flat mate) making an appearance.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back to him, gratitude and the ever-present quiet amazement at John's appreciation of his intellect flickering to the fore. As John knelt over the body again, Sherlock's slate grey eyes stayed fastened on the doctor.

Lestrade swallowed, hard. For once, the pale face was a study in naked emotion, a _longing_ so sharp it cut the D.I.'s heart to witness it. He glanced away, trying to grant Sherlock some sense of privacy. His gaze landed on the body where Watson was busy verifying some small detail, completely unaware of his flat mate's regard. Lestrade's felt his ribs tighten painfully, as if there weren't enough oxygen in the room.

It was all too easy to see that Sherlock had fallen hard for the doctor. And all too easy to imagine that John was completely unaware of it.

" _It's not like that." "I'm not gay."_

Lestrade could hear them again at their first-ever shared crime scene:

" _That's fantastic!"_

" _Do you know that you do that out loud?"_

" _Sorry. I'll shut up."_

" _No, it's…fine."_

 _He was lost then. Right then. The rest has been…inevitable,_ Lestrade thought sadly. Sherlock Holmes _needed_ John Watson. In a way the D.I. was quite certain the detective had never needed another human being. In a way that he likely would never need another. In a way that John – so much more adept at human social cues and interaction, so much easier to get along with – did not need him.

" _Not good?"_

" _Bit not good, yeah."_

He cleared his throat to break the moment. Pity for Sherlock was not something he'd ever thought to feel – and it was both unpleasant and unwelcome. Both heads jerked to him, and it was obvious from the way John's head snapped up and the pale detective's high cheekbones pinked just slightly, that neither had been aware of his presence.

It was worse than he'd realized. Sherlock _never_ got distracted at a crime scene. He could tell what was missing as easily as what was right in front of his nose. That he would not have noticed the D.I….

"What have you found?" Lestrade asked, clamping down on his speculations. _Still_ not his business. Perhaps even more not his business now than it had been fifteen minutes ago. A man's heart was his own affair. As long as Sherlock's puzzle-solving skills remained sharp as ever, there was no reason to ask any questions.

Sherlock slid into his lecture mode, all evidence of emotion ruthlessly suppressed, now pacing around the body, telling Lestrade what they'd discovered. John's notebook made its required appearance, it's owner's head bent over it at an angle, dutifully recording.

Lestrade listened attentively, the copper silently making lists of personnel and equipment to be dispatched following Sherlock's conclusions, actively shutting down the rest of his brain that was busy chalking up the myriad ways that this could be a disaster.

Prime amongst them would be Anderson's disgust, Donovan's smug reaction, and the almost certain insistence of setting up a pool at the Yard on the whys, whens and wherefores of the situation. A situation that, given John Watson's ignorance, might never unfold.

No…he would continue to plead oblivion.

There were more important things than John Watson and Sherlock Holmes' love life.

Although, as he watched the doctor scribbling rapidly, pen dashing across the page to leave shining lines of inky scrawl, only to look up when Sherlock paused, admiration for the consulting detective shaping his whole honest face, the D.I. had a second epiphany.

Denial or not, John's quiet regard was just as intense as Sherlock's. And Lestrade didn't know how much longer John was going to be able to keep his feelings from himself.

He closed the door on his nervousness. There was no use worrying now what would happen to both men when it was dragged into the open. He would just be prepared with a pint and a listening ear.

888

A/N: Love it? Hate it? Review it!


	5. Molly

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: I know that Molly Hooper has not yet appeared in any of my pieces, but I felt I couldn't leave her out of this one. In her own quiet way, I feel like she is the canon character most personally affected by John's presence in Sherlock's life. Enjoy.

Molly

Only one.

John's phone beeped. Across the room, Molly looked up from the mundane task she'd assigned herself so that she could maintain the illusion of needing to be exactly where Sherlock was.

She saw the two men swap surprised glances, subduing a familiar wave of envy at their effortless communication. Sherlock even looked up from his microscope and leaned over a bit, possessively angling to read the screen as if to ask, _I'm right here. Who could possibly be texting you?_

John's face was similarly puzzled. _Beats me. You're the only one who does._

He thumbed open the message, and Molly watched his face crumple, his jaw lock, the blue eyes going ice cold with something that was anger, fear and a third emotion before closing briefly.

"John?" Sherlock placed a steadying hand on the doctor's shoulder, long fingers squeezing gently, no longer playfully trying to see the message. Molly suddenly couldn't breathe, her throat closing as she gazed at a Sherlock she had never met.

His full mouth was gentle, the tension lines around his grey eyes loosening with compassion. Even his austere cheekbones seemed to soften as he gazed down at his flat mate who was visibly struggling for control.

"It's Harry…she's…" John swallowed, opened his eyes, focused on Sherlock not a foot from his face. "She's in the ER. Again." He scrubbed his face with one hand, suddenly looking exhausted. "Damn. Sherlock…" His other hand anchored itself around Sherlock's wrist, absently squeezing.

"Go," the detective rumbled in his quiet baritone. "You clearly feel the need to be with her."

John barked a harsh laugh that had no mirth in it. "Strangle her, more like. If she doesn't check into rehab this time, I'll get the courts to bloody order it." He pulled a deep breath, obviously reaching for his military discipline. "But I should…the case?"

"Will be fine." Neither man had moved, Sherlock gently half-holding his shorter friend, John leaning into him, taking the comfort he offered. "I will ask Molly—" he lifted his eyes from John's to meet hers.

Her knees buckled, and she was supremely grateful for the bench she was already propped against. The warmth – _love_ – for his friend still brightened the grey, casting them as molten steel for the first few seconds of their glance, and heat poured through her, curling in her toes, expanding in her chest. It was as if she were a receptacle made specifically to hold this burning, to receive that regard—

—but the heat faded instantly to the warm grey of a lazy summer thunderstorm, then continued receding, leaving the cool slate of the business-like persona he had always brought to the morgue. To her.

Molly felt her heart contract, drained as the ardor collapsed in on itself as swiftly as it had filled her. Her vision tunneled, she felt claws pumping green poison into her blood, and for a moment, she _hated_ Dr. John Watson.

John followed Sherlock's gaze, noticed her (he had obviously forgotten she was there), then noted his fingers still gripping Sherlock's forearm, and released him, stepping back and away from his flat mate's consoling hand as his neck reddened visibly.

"Molly, I'll require your assistance this evening," Sherlock was saying smoothly. "Are you free?"

As if she would say no. He asked, knowing she wouldn't say no – although she should, given what she knew she'd just witnessed—

"Of…of course."

888

 _Several weeks later…_

"Got anything fun planned for the hols, then?" she asked, striving for the cheerfulness that always fell flat. She hated forcing herself to make conversation – she wasn't good at it and it inevitably felt awkward – but she could no more have _him_ in her morgue and remain silent than the Earth could decide to abandon its orbit round the sun.

"Mm. No," he said flatly, his eyes rapidly scanning the page he was reading.

"Oh? That's a shame. I thought maybe you and John—"

"John is insistent on going to his sister's for Christmas," Sherlock cut her off and looked up to give her a tight, false smile. "I don't know what about the 'holiday spirit' encourages perfectly rational people to throw all thought out the window and believe that their families have suddenly and inexplicably changed for the better, but it seems John suffers from that delusion along with ninety-nine percent of the population of London."

"So his sister didn't go to rehab?" she couldn't help asking. She'd seen the two men multiple times since her epiphany, but the time was never right to inquire.

"She went. Not that it has done her any good. But John believes in her sobriety, and will not allow me to disillusion him."

"He'll be away for Christmas, then?" she said, and a light of stubborn hope flared in her chest. Since the doctor had come in to his life, Sherlock had become a great deal more social. The challenge was that he tended to be more social with _John_. If John were away, perhaps the detective would be open to another keeping him company.

"Indeed." He was back to speed-reading the page.

"Well, if you're not busy…" he didn't pick up the sentence as she trailed off. Swallowing, she summoned her courage and continued, "If you're not busy, perhaps you'd like to go out for a drink with a…with me."

"I believe that I've committed to Mrs. Hudson to 'carve the Christmas turkey', or some such traditionally male role on the day itself," he replied blandly, not looking up.

 _Is he really as ignorant of social norms as he makes himself seem? Or is it simply the most efficient cover for blowing people off? Would he continue the conversation like this if it were John doing the asking?_ she wondered, and couldn't help the rush of spite that flooded her. Then again, when Sherlock was focused, not even the doctor could tear him away from his object of study…so, yes, he probably would. But his answer would have been along the lines of _"Of course, John. What else would we be doing on Christmas?"_ instead of a refusal.

 _He's_ never _going to direct that look at you, Molly Hooper_ , the voice of her common sense – ruthlessly subjugated when it came to Sherlock Holmes – piped up. _Six years he's been working with Scotland Yard. Six years you've been hopelessly, unrequitedly in love with him, waiting for him to turn around and notice you, to see you as a woman, to care about the body behind the lab coat. Six years._ The scientist in her demanded facing the reality she had refused to admit for over a year: _John Watson walked into his life thirteen months ago and got farther in the first twenty-four hours than you will in a lifetime._

"However, I believe that on Christmas Eve we are having evening drinks. Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have been invited, as has the latest in John's string of girlfriends—" she wouldn't have heard the slightly bitter cast underlying the overall tone of 'they're so tiresome' if she hadn't been looking for it, but it was there, "—I can't see why you shouldn't join us as well."

" _I can't see why you shouldn't join us as well." What a romantic invitation. But_ that _is as good as it's going to get,_ that same voice pitched in. _Drinks on Christmas Eve. Like you're work mates who socialize when society dictates that it's appropriate._

But the desperate someone inside of her couldn't say no, no matter that it was nowhere near what she wanted. "That would be lovely," she replied, hitching a smile onto her face.

He continued reading, a vague nod the only indication that he'd heard her – that he'd cared about her reply – and she fled. Just to outside, where she placed her forehead against the cold concrete-block walls of the morgue and struggled to take deep breaths, choking off her tears.

John Watson was Sherlock's one-and-only. It was time for her to shelve her childish dreams of being swept off her feet by the consulting detective. She wasn't stupid – she knew that he flirted with her to gain what he wanted, and then she could go back into her box until he needed to play again. And she had allowed him to treat her that way. Encouraged it, even, if only to have some rare, infinitesimal measure of his attention trained on her.

And while he'd never had anyone else, that had somehow been enough to salve her wounded pride. She permitted herself to take foolish reassurance in his quick smiles, in the lingering enthusiasm that spilled over on her when he'd solved a particularly challenging case, letting herself believe that she was closer than she actually was, that he valued her more than others.

She wanted to loathe John Watson…but the doctor had done nothing more than unwittingly shed an unwanted light of reality on the game she'd been playing with herself.

 _After Christmas_ , she promised herself, swallowing the lump in her throat and mastering her leaky eyes. _New year, new beginning. No more wasting time on Sherlock Holmes._

She straightened her back, hastily dashed the tears from her eyes, and returned to the morgue.

888

A/N: Please let me know what you think!


	6. Mrs Hudson

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: This chapter, the last one, and the next two are woven into and between 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.

Mrs. Hudson

 _Sherlock_

Protective.

"—I'm sure you can see why being involved with John would open the door to an unwanted level of…chaos."

Mrs. Hudson recognized the silky drawl of Sherlock at his most dangerous floating through her kitchen window. She hurried to peer out – if he was going to have another bloody battle on her front stoop, she was calling that wonderful detective inspector…

But the person Sherlock had cornered didn't look like a dangerous criminal or a wanted felon. She was of average height, reasonably slim, nicely dressed, looked like she was maybe Polish…probably about mid-thirties—

"I'm sorry, but who the _hell_ are you?" Mrs. Hudson heard the other woman ask firmly.

She'd heard that voice before. Admittedly, it had been laughter-laced, as opposed to frostily clinging to her shreds of civility, but Mrs. Hudson was sure she knew it—

—John's latest 'girlfriend'. He'd only gone out on two or three dates with her, and hadn't yet spent a night on her sofa due to yet one more domestic with the detective, so the landlady didn't really consider her in the door just yet.

And it appeared Sherlock was taking an interest. Suddenly much more amused than alarmed, the older woman covered her mouth as her eyes crinkled in a smile, leaning closer to the window, striving to see and hear without drawing the detective's too-observant eye.

"A…friend…" Sherlock deliberately lingered over the word, allowing his prey to mull over the various implications, "…of John's. Someone who takes his safety very seriously."

"I don't see how my relationship with a doctor from a clinic can be _any_ of your business. No matter who you are."

Sherlock took one measured step closer to her, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head. She admired the younger woman's guts – standing up to Sherlock when he had this note in his eye was no mean feat – but there was no chance of her winning the battle when he looked like that.

"The fact that you think he's just a doctor from a clinic is simply one more indicator that you have _no_ idea what you've gotten yourself into." He leaned in closer, the position almost intimate except for the line of his shoulders, taut in threat. "John and I…work together."

Her eyes were wide, but her feet were planted in her heels, and she did not allow herself to back away. She swallowed, and Mrs. Hudson reminded herself to smack Sherlock upside the head with the paper she still had rolled up on the counter. It was probably a kindness to warn her off, all told, but there was hardly cause to terrify the poor girl.

Thundering feet on the stairs. The rapid, anticipatory pace blazed past her door – and the front door was opening, Sherlock suddenly at a quite-proper distance, contriving to look as if he'd only just walked up himself, instead of having spent God-knew-how-long discomforting John's date.

"Sherlock? Just getting back? Lestrade's case didn't take too long, then?"

"Child's play," Sherlock replied dismissively, taking a step towards his flat mate.

"Ta. I bet he was thrilled to hear that assessment when they haven't been able to solve it for six months." When he finally turned his attention and his smile on his date, Mrs. Hudson was shaking her head. Really. John's charming chivalry disappeared the instant Sherlock stepped into the picture. From what she could see of her face, his lovely Polish friend was completely unimpressed

"Terezka! You look lovely. Have you been introduced to Sherlock—?"

"Really, John, if you think I've nothing better to do than keep track of your girlfriends…" Sherlock shrugged eloquently, managing to make it clear that she was one of many and nothing special, and he was in the door before John had a chance to recover.

"Shame on you eavesdropping, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's voice came from behind her, and she jumped. But the grey eyes sparkled. "As you did, however…what do you think? Just the right amount?"

"Oh, Sherlock!" She knew he could see her smile, and wouldn't have taken her scolding seriously in any case, but she owed it to John to give him an earful. "You know you oughtn't do that to that poor girl! I thought she might pass out right before John rescued her from you!"

"She's boring," he said dismissively, and on that note, turned and took the stairs two at a time.

A quick check at the window showed John and his lady – Terezka? – walking down the street, her arm looped appropriately through his, but their bodies not touching otherwise.

 _Last date,_ she assessed knowledgeably. _Just talk to him, Sherlock!_

888

No more than two weeks after the Girlfriend Intimidation Incident, scraping noises rattled her windows, prompting a trip upstairs. "Boys, what on earth are you _doing_?" she pushed open the door to 221. But the living room was surprisingly undisturbed (for Sherlock and John – papers still haphazardly draped off the desk, the coffee table and the corners of chairs, and several of John's teacups had migrated to the floor, pushed aside by unrelenting tides of evidence).

More scraping. A little banging. Coming from upstairs. She sighed and firmly ignored the various dirty dishes balanced precariously on each available corner (" _Not_ your housekeeper!"). It wouldn't be the first time either John or Sherlock ended up having a knock-down-drag-out fight at home, but she did wish they'd save the physical violence for the street. Blood could be so difficult to get out of carpets.

She took the stairs to John's bedroom, wincing as her hip protested.

"John, dear, really—"

But there was no assailant in the room, and the dark, curly head bent intently over the window sash did not belong to Dr. Watson.

"Sherlock?"

He straightened, peering at his handiwork deliberately before turning to her. She was shocked to see grease stains on his long fingers, smudged on his delicate wrists.

"Mrs. Hudson. How are you?"

His voice had that blatantly casual tone he always used when hoping to divert attention from his activity by resorting to social niceties. She shook her finger at him. "No you don't, young man. _What_ are you doing up here to make all this racket?"

His sea-grey eyes considered her, and he nodded once, sharply. "Someone got in through John's window a few nights ago."

"Is _that_ what that was?" She had grown well accustomed to police cars arriving in front of her apartment at all hours – her hip had been particularly painful and she hadn't even bothered to get up for this one.

"Yes," he answered shortly. "And it was immediately obvious that his specific purpose was assassinating John. Luckily, we were in the kitchen."

Mrs. Hudson winced. She doubted the detective in front of her had been terribly interested in allowing the man to leave with the Yard. "John called Lestrade, didn't he?"

"Hmm. And hid his gun," Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock!"

"I wouldn't have permanently ruined him, just…slightly incapacitated him." Mrs. Hudson appreciated that he couldn't quite look her in the eye as he said this. After her own experience with the American CIA, she knew better.

"Better to keep you _out_ of jail, dear, you've got too many enemies in there. So what's all this?"

"A little grease on the roof, some nearly-invisible wires, a few key sections of the fire escape weakened…" The grey eyes shifted to thoughtful. "Anyone who manages to get through now is someone I'd like to meet."

She stared at him. "You… _booby-trapped_ my fire escape? Sherlock!"

He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure Lestrade will approve. It will save the Yard a lot of time for us to handle it on our own."

"Sherlock…that's a two-story drop."

His sudden smile was predatory, and, for the second time in recent memory, Martha Hudson truly appreciated that this could be a dangerous man. The state of the CIA agent when the paramedics had finally arrived six weeks ago had opened her eyes to the fact that the younger Holmes brother had no qualms about breaking bones in defense of those he loved.

"Indeed. _I_ would think twice before trying to break in – unless I _really_ needed something. Wouldn't you?"

His grin turned smug as he brushed past her, intent on the bathroom and cleaning himself up. She took a hesitant step towards the still-open window, stopped, shrugged. Sherlock had undoubtedly broken building code (along with several laws) in his zealous protection of the doctor, and at the point it became a problem, he would pay to repair it – or to bribe the correct officials into overlooking it.

Either way, it wasn't going to be her problem. And Sherlock was right…it might just cut down on the number of times John ended up asking for vinegar to clear up yet one more blood stain.

888

But the real indication of the amazing change being wrought in the detective became obvious when not three days after the booby-trapping, she nearly ran him down coming out of 221 as he was preparing to come in, laden with…shopping?

"Sherlock, where have you been?"

He looked at her as if she were daft, then rotated one of the bags so that the blue-and-red proclaiming _Tesco_ fluttered at her in the light breeze.

She raised her eyes to his in amazement. He shrugged, green-grey gaze sliding away slightly. "John's at work, won't be home 'til late. We were out of a few things I needed."

Milk. Tea. Bread. Beans. She could read some labels through the bag, and she could identify some of those bulky things if she were blind. She smothered her smile. There was nothing in there that Sherlock used for his experiments – he had moved past food while still in primary school.

But milk and tea was John's favorite beverage, and beans on toast his regular breakfast.

"Have a good day, dear," she bid him as she stepped out, not bothering to conceal her smile. She could feel his puzzled glance on the back of her neck as she started down the pavement.

Sherlock _shopping_. John Watson could work marvels.

888

 _John_

Jealous.

 _Ahhhhh_.

That _sound_. The rude one that meant Sherlock had received a text message. A message from someone John didn't like, if the sudden tightness around his eyes was anything to go by.

"Fifty-seven," the doctor announced.

Sherlock glanced at him, startled. "What?"

"Fifty-seven of those texts. The one's I've heard." John's voice was just short of challenging, and Mrs. Hudson could see confusion written on everyone else's face. Good. She wasn't the only one missing part of the picture.

"Thrilling that you've been counting," Sherlock said coolly, crossing to the mantle and extricating a package cleverly inserted amongst the stockings and draped greenery. "Excuse me."

"What's up, Sherlock?" The doctor's voice had gentled to concerned, clearly trying to convey something without saying it in front of all their witnesses.

The detective's reply was cold and curt, shutting him down as he strode towards his bedroom, Molly Hooper's present now ignored on the side table. "I said, 'Excuse me'."

"Do you ever reply?" John called after him, and the landlady met Greg Lestrade's dark eyes, trouble glimmering in the depths of them. There had been a touch of desperation in John's tone.

Mrs. Hudson had heard that sound in Sherlock's pocket several times now, and every time, John had tensed. And obviously counted.

But _why_? Her words to Sarah from nearly nine months ago still rang true, but the teacher sitting in the armchair was the doctor's latest casual interest, brought in to meet the flat mate (Sherlock had already called her Sarah, listed John's previous girlfriends and called her 'boring'. His apologies might have passed muster for John and Jeanette, but Mrs. Hudson knew blatant sabotage when she saw it) and friends.

If Sherlock receiving texts – from a man or a woman – bothered John, why didn't the doctor _stop_ bringing his ladies by? Mrs. Hudson was on the verge of giving up on these two – Sherlock _knew_ how he felt and refused to say anything, and John…John genuinely appeared to think of Sherlock only as a friend – albeit a best friend – and found nothing unusual in the intimacy of their interaction and nothing contradictory about the fact that he still wanted to sleep with women.

As her head swung back from tracking Sherlock's abrupt departure, her sympathetic eyes caught John's dark blue ones. Feeling kaleidoscoped through them, worry, fear, frustration…and _jealousy?_

Yes. Undeniably it was, clouding his usually sunny countenance.

Well, that answered _that_ question, then. There was something moderately comforting about knowing that her instincts _had_ been spot on from the get go. She had been doubting herself recently.

And then John Watson was back, all smiles for Jeanette and Molly. Mrs. Hudson didn't remotely believe this façade, and she could see that the D.I. didn't either, but his performance seemed sufficient for the girls. Her gaze locked with Lestrade's again when John shortly made some pithy excuse and followed Sherlock off to his room.

The copper tilted his chin at where John had been perched just moments before on the arm of Jeanette's chair. The dark, beautiful woman was staring after her nominal boyfriend, unhappiness creasing her eyes.

 _Not fooled, then,_ Mrs. Hudson thought, and knew a flash of pity for the teacher and a rare anger at John. He picked them smart – which was why they left him.

She shook her head and swallowed another sip of wine. Jeanette wasn't long for John Watson. The stubborn doctor needed to get his head out of his arse and admit that his flat mate was the most important person in the world to him.

If he didn't hurry up about it, she might even be the one to tell him so.

888

A/N: As usual, please let me know what you think!


	7. Irene Adler

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: I couldn't resist introducing Irene Adler. I love the dynamic of her relationship with both men. I think she absolutely knew what knots she was tying around John the whole episode, even though their canon relationship is platonic. Please enjoy!

Irene Adler

Selfless.

"I would tell you to seduce the good doctor, my dear, as he's by far the easier one to read, and definitely the man more open to your powers of persuasion. But if you do that, I'm afraid Sherlock will totally lock you out. And it's _him_ we need."

 _You need._ Irene Adler was grateful that she didn't inhabit Sebastian Moran's shoes – listening to the boss drone on about the detective endlessly. She had met more men in her line of work than she could bother counting – the younger Holmes couldn't possibly be worth such obsession. In her experience, no man was, however interesting he might appear on the surface. At the end of the day, they all wanted exactly one thing. Power.

The Woman carefully placed the tweezers between her brows and pulled an errant hair. Leaning into the mirror, she smoothed a perfectly-maintained eyebrow before turning a close-lipped smile on her sponsor. James Moriarty knew all about power. Was the best player of the game in the world. Which was why she was allied with him.

"John Watson would be too easy, Jim. Let me at least have a bit of fun."

James Moriarty smirked. "Oh my dear Miss Adler…Sherlock Holmes should present you with _plenty_ of fun. He'll be quite the challenge. One might say," the dark eyes sparkled with their mad humor, "you've met your match."

 _Indeed?_ Jim might be obsessed…but that didn't mean he was mentally deficient. She had always been able to trust his astonishing ability to read people. Her interest in the assignment kicked up a notch.

"Why, because he's in love with his oh-so-straight flat mate?" Her smile this time had teeth as her gaze raked the papers piled on her bureau. While most would see only the partners-in-crime captured briefly as they dashed out of doors, collars up and hats down to avoid the flash bulbs, a few enterprising photographers had managed to capture other moments. A hand on an arm. A shared look in the street. The exciting facts of the cases had kept the fringes of the press yapping about the brilliance of the detective and his blogger, but – typical of the media – they had failed to delve deeper.

Which was, of course, to her advantage.

"I don't trade in love, Jim," she said, lightly trailing her blush brush over his cheekbone, around the shell of his ear, "as you well know," her lips came to rest at his other ear, close enough to feel his heat. "Lust will do." She returned to her mirror, swiping the powder on her cheeks. "With a touch of 'I just _can't_ do this without you, Mr. Holmes'. No need to engage his heart – capturing his ego will be plenty."

888

"Mr. Archer. On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."

" _What_?" Watson was kneeling next to her, perfectly still, eyes straight ahead on the carpet, hands on the back of his head. But she could hear the _why me, it's_ her _safe!_ in his cry.

 _Because, dear Dr. Watson, he will crack that safe to save you, even if governments fall, even if the whole world burns. Not for my sake._

She had to give the Americans some credit for surprising intelligence. They had successfully invaded her house, and now, even more intriguing, they were perceptive enough to chose the correct target to unlock Sherlock's mouth

The blossoming relationship between the two men had been obvious from the instant they'd stepped through her door, seething and more potent than any photograph could capture. She had wondered with some amusement which would crack first – the brilliant "I'm anti-social and asexual" detective, or the "I'm straight and he's too crazy for me" ex-army doctor. Of the two, she could tell that Sherlock, at least, knew how he felt.

It complicated her job somewhat, but only slightly. And the experiment would be stimulating. Assuming they survived this encounter, she was looking forward to making both men squirm. Which was going to be all too easy.

" _Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."_ Sherlock had startled at that mild throwaway line – a total contrast to his almost complete indifference (other than the initial surprise reaction) to her nudity. How would he react when she really pulled out the stops?

His voice now was almost strangled with panic. She knew he had been in this situation before – looking at John rigged to explode. Jim had been thrilled with that encounter and all he had learned—

—" _You should have_ seen _the way Sherlock ripped those bombs off. I thought he was going to completely undress him and jump him right there!"—_

—and would be delighted to know that she could corroborate his assessment of the two men.

"I don't know the code," Sherlock said tightly. The barrel of the gun was pressing into John's neck, forcing him nearly to the floor.

"One."

"I don't know the code." Desperation was creeping in now.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me, I DON'T KNOW IT!" It was clear Sherlock could see his friend's brains splattering the rug, the force of his distress was genuine, not the act he was so successful at putting on—

"Prepared to believe you any second now," the CIA agent said coolly. Pause. Sherlock didn't speak. Didn't move. The American's blond eyebrows rose as if to say, _Still nothing?_ Watson's eyes fluttered closed in resignation.

"Three."

"No! Stop!" Sherlock barked. She held her breath. Next to her, she could hear Watson do the same. Had the detective noticed? Did they think the same way? Was he all the cleverness Jim had promised?

But the guns were not firing as he shot a glance back at her. She tilted her head slightly. _"I told you."_ Behind those fog-grey eyes, his magnificent brain was speeding through their conversation, seeking the clues that would allow him to save his doctor.

She could hear his fingers over the keys, each press hesitant – though whether out of uncertainty or an attempt to delay, it was impossible to tell.

Either way, he entered the correct code. He turned to look at her again, and she deliberately lowered her eyes in warning. Jim had his own plans for Sherlock. They did not include his death at the hands of her booby-trapped safe.

He opened the safe slowly, bellowed an unintelligible sentence that obviously meant something to Watson, who jerked out of the way as the detective ducked towards the lead CIA agent at the same time, allowing the shot from her trap to eliminate the threat to the doctor.

It took approximately ten seconds to get the room back under control. She had to admit that she was impressed – brains _and_ brawn. Not the customary combination. Jim hated doing his own dirty work.

"Thank you. You were very…observant. I'm flattered," she flashed Sherlock her patented thousand-promises smile as she tightened the belt around his coat.

His response was almost disdainful in it's total flatness: "Don't be."

The subtext was hardly difficult to read, though she doubted that Watson, still kneeling, fingers seeking a pulse in the fallen man who'd been willing to kill him, had noticed.

The CIA had picked their incentive well. He had attached no more importance to racking up the measurements of her naked form than he would to any other pieces of evidence shoved under his nose. His efforts had been entirely for his flat mate.

She raised her flawless eyebrows. The Iceman, The Virgin and the Rigid Heterosexual. Could she crack this façade? Capture some part of his interest?

He might be in love with John Watson, but she hadn't been lying to Jim – lust was a wholly different beast. And Irene Adler craved a challenge. She hadn't had one like this in years – who knew if she ever would again?

888

"I'd say he's heartbroken, but ah, well…he's Sherlock." She smirked. The tired-and-worried tone of John's voice betrayed him. Watson really did think this kidnapping was Mycroft's doing. It was a testament to the elder Holmes' love of using attractive women to lure the doctor to do his bidding.

 _Heartbroken?_ Interesting. She must have gotten farther under his skin than she'd thought. Then again, John was still seeing his string of ladies, as Jim's surveillance of 221B (now regrettably relegated back to strictly outside-the-door scrutiny) readily attested. Was Sherlock using her to get some of his own back at the doctor? Or as a distraction? Either way, Watson was under the impression she meant more to his flat mate than she thought.

When he rounded the corner and saw her, he stopped dead. For a long moment, they stood, staring at each other. His face was a picture in conflict. Disbelief – they had identified her body less than a double handful of days ago. _Sherlock_ had identified her, which, she suspected for Watson, was more reliable than if God Himself had done the honors. Relief – that she was alive, that Sherlock could stop moping.

And anger. That she could be so cruel to the man he loved.

But his voice was surprisingly gentle when he swallowed and said, quite earnestly, "Tell him you're alive."

Astounding. That his first concern should be _this_ , when she was actively focused on taking the man he adored away from him. She had a piercing flash of insight that felt like sorrow weighing on her chest. John Watson was a _good_ man. Much better than she, or Jim. Or Sherlock. She shook her head. "He'd come after me." If only as a puzzle he had to solve, but he would still come.

"I'll come after you if you don't," Watson instantly replied. His tone was still gentle, but there was a firmness there that told her he didn't like her, and he would make good on that promise.

"Mmm, I believe you."

Unlike his relationship with Mycroft, however, Watson clearly didn't believe she had the upper hand. When she asked for her phone back, he was adamant – she had to tell Sherlock she was alive, or she would get no assistance from him. She could see hope and dread at war within him, but above all, the _need_ for Sherlock to know the truth. As if that would set things right.

"What do I say?" she capitulated

"What do you _normally_ say? You've texted him a lot!" Ah…there was the anger she'd glimpsed before.

"Just the usual stuff." She played the guilty defense, curious how he would react.

He was shaking his head in flat denial. "There is no usual in this case." How true that was. The Virgin. A John Watson would have taken her flirtatious texts in stride. Responded – or not – and that would have told all she needed to know. But Sherlock—

Sherlock didn't play this game. Whether because he didn't know the rules or simply didn't care sufficiently about her, she was yet uncertain.

She thumbed open her text messages, as if she needed to review them to know what she'd written. "'Good morning. I liked your funny hat.'" 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.' 'You looked sexy on crime watch, let's have dinner.'" John winced slightly at the _sexy_ , but didn't interrupt. "'Not hungry, let's have dinner.'"

"You…flirted…with Sherlock Holmes."

" _At_ him. He never replies."

"Sherlock always replies to…everything. He's mister punchline. He will…outlive God…trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?"

"I don't know." John honestly looked like he was considering it, and his blue eyes were frank as he admitted, "Maybe."

"You jealous?"

Exasperation flashed in the tightening of his eyes. "We're not a couple."

To hell with that. The least Watson could do was stop lying to himself. "Yes you are." Her fingers flew over her keys. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"

John sighed, and his next objection was as predicable as wind in autumn. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Irene Adler lifted her gaze from her phone to fix the small man with a stare. "Well I, actually, am." Yet, there was something elusive, indefinable, about Sherlock Holmes that had fully captured her interest. "So where does that leave us both?"

She could _see_ his face shutting down as she asked the question, and she wondered if he might, now, reach the conclusion he'd been hiding from himself for God only knew how long—

And then that _sound_ …the one she'd programmed into his phone as a joke and a challenge, the one that meant Sherlock was nearby, that he was listening, that he had perhaps heard the whole conversation, and, suddenly, it all changed. She watched the soldier's body turn, let his feet carry him forward and knew that he had no idea what he looked like in this moment – hope and fear and dread and anxiety all bundled together as he moved towards the man he couldn't admit he was in love with – and she threw up a hand, standing directly between them, stopping him.

"I don't think so. Do you?"

Watson closed his eyes, swallowed, and shook his head as Sherlock's footfalls faded into the distance.

She had won this round. But the victory was duller than most, and she knew why. Next to John Watson, she stood no chances in the long run.

And it would have been so _fun_ to get to know Sherlock over the long run.

888

 **Iceman's move. It will be soon. Find it.**

Jim's message was brief and commanding. No matter what games they played, she knew who was servant here and who was master. So she allowed Sherlock to find her sleeping in his bed. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the charge in the room – Sherlock's curious indulgence, and Watson's chilly tolerance of her presence.

It would be a shame to leave them both in the wake of Jim's shattering destruction of Mycroft's plans – especially since the detective was the linchpin in aiding his enemy. Sherlock was responding far better than she'd initially hoped to her blatant display of interest, and his ex-army doctor was struggling to keep himself under the rigid control the military had granted him. She would be sorry not to be present when it finally cracked.

"You're rather good." The whole of that intent grey gaze was focused on her with surprised approval, and she couldn't stop the thrilling sensation of vertigo that raced up her spine.

"You're not so bad," she granted, giving him a sultry smile.

"Hamish." It was too loud, designed to interrupt an uncomfortable tableau, and Sherlock's gaze snapped to his flat mate in surprise. "John Hamish Watson. Just if you were…" he cleared his throat awkwardly, jealousy making it tight, "looking for baby names."

Sherlock looked faintly surprised, thought whether that was at the implication or John's obvious ploy to disrupt them, she couldn't tell. She merely smiled. Let the good doctor draw his own conclusions.

888

"What can you do, Mr. Holmes? Go on. Impress a girl." She hovered close to his ear, her breath stirring the dark curls at his temple, her mouth moving closer to the porcelain skin—

—when her lips settled against his stubble-roughened cheek, she felt his breathing hitch…and ceramic gave an affronted _clunk_ as it hit the table with more force than usual, John's fingers pressed into the mug as if trying to re-shape the fired clay.

Sherlock's expressive eyes snapped to the doctor and she could almost see the wheels spinning in their rapid rotation as he began to deduce. Was this ever-more-electrifying performance in search of yet one more _'Remarkable'_ from his doctor? Or was she winning? Had she finally broken through him?

The speed of his brain, the patterns he saw, the way he could stitch fragments into a whole was _astonishing._ A sharp note of regret jangled discordantly in her breath as she withdrew slightly – that she had met Jim Moriarty first, that she was the kind of girl to play in Jim's world of devils instead of Sherlock's alongside the angels, and she fiercely beat it back. She had chosen to be what she was, she excelled at it, and the brilliant man who had just rattled off the keys to his brother's plan was unwittingly completely in her pocket. So was John Watson – though he, at least, was there only by default and resented it.

"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing, John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language," Sherlock said dryly, rising. John's eyebrows lifted, but whether it was at Sherlock's arrogance or a _too right_ directed at her, she couldn't say.

 _Not the ones I use_ , she thought smugly as she daringly stepped up to the detective, tilting her head back so that the clean sweep of her pale throat, framed by the dark of her wet hair, filled his vision. "I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

Surprised pleasure registered in the grey, then, with even aplomb, "John, can you please check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?"

John seemed unable to tell who was playing who as he stammered, "Yeah…um…I'm on it, yeah." His fingers hit the keys slowly, a blind man's stick rounding an unfamiliar street, and from the corner of her eye, she could sense his gaze still fixed on them.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," Sherlock said, storm-colored eyes fixed on her. It didn't sound as if he entirely loathed the idea.

It was triumph that surged to curl her mouth. "Twice."

888

The silence that had fallen over 221B in the wake of his cracking the email was comfortable, like a thick woolen blanket when snow is falling outside. "Coventry," he murmured.

"I've never been. Is it nice?" she asked, genuinely curious. By the end of the evening, he would know of her betrayal, and she regretted the necessity. For now, it was nice to pretend that that future didn't have to occur.

She'd spent most of her life playing pretend – but precious little had been for herself.

No sooner had she had the thought than Sherlock's puzzled slate eyes were on her in the chair opposite him, then glancing around the flat. "Where's John?"

Of course. She might make his heart speed up and his palms sweat, but his default setting now was fixed on John Watson, and one might move heaven and earth before budging that. "He went out. A couple of hours ago."

He frowned. It wasn't a displeased expression, more one of bafflement. "I was just talking to him."

"He said you do that," she smiled, and moved in, intent on distracting him…

888

 _Goodbye Mr. Holmes_.

This wasn't what she'd expected. But then again, nothing had been as expected since she'd been forced to flee Britain.

She would die, now, on her knees in Karachi, where at least they kept their swords sharp. The Americans and their CIA, with their airless, windowless rooms and inventive tortures, would have been worse.

She lifted her head, arming herself with the strange dignity she had always managed to possess while doing the dirtiest of jobs, and commended her soul to any God who could find it.

 _Ahhhh._

The second time she was hearing it in a totally unexpected and impossible place...she lifted her eyes to the swordsman swathed in black, and the unique London-fog-grey that belonged to only one human being she'd ever met stared down at her.

"When I say run, run!"

He swung the sword.

888

"Why?" she asked him in Islamabad's airport not twenty-four hours later. Her destination was Thailand, and their last conversation hovered over her head. There had been no mercy in his voice, then.

" _I imagine John Watson thinks that love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive."_

" _Everything I said…it's not real. I was just playing the game."_

" _I know. And this is just losing." Her phone, her safety net, her life, was unlocked, handed from one Holmes to the other like the machine it was, and Sherlock turned from her, speaking to his brother as if she were no more than an erring child that he could choose to discipline – or not._

" _If you're going to be kind, lock her up. If not, let her go. I doubt she'll last long without her protection."_

" _Are you expecting me to beg?"_

 _His voice was flat. "Yes."_

" _Please…You're right. I won't even last six months."_

 _No expression. "Sorry about dinner."_

Sherlock shot her a studying, sideways glance. "John," he replied with abrupt honesty.

"Sorry?"

"John." His mouth twitched faintly, eyes shifting from frosted slate to raincloud grey with remembrance. "Yours is an actual, _human_ life. He would want…I knew I could save you. He would approve."

"'Love is a dangerous disadvantage,'" she said in the tone of a quotation, and his lips quirked on one side. He didn't deny the assertion – it simply didn't matter to him that she knew. "You're never going to tell him." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock shrugged. "No. I'm not. Mycroft's men have been keeping you under surveillance – ostensibly for my sake. Our show will ensure that news of your execution reached my brother's desk this morning while you ate breakfast. I'm sure he's planning the best way to break the news to me, using John as a conduit. There's no reason for him to ever concern himself with you again, Miss Adler."

"But _you_ know," she murmured with quiet understanding. John who had saved so many lives…as a doctor, as a soldier, and at Sherlock's side. John who had saved Sherlock's life. And now, in a roundabout way, hers.

" _People have died."_

" _That what's people DO!"_

But not her. Not her because Sherlock was _not_ Jim, because he knew he could save her – and in the name of the one man he considered to be his moral compass, he had done so.

The true demarcation between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes was not devils and angels. There was no epic of good and evil here. The difference was that John Watson had imbedded himself in the soul of the consulting detective, taken a great man and turned him into a good one.

She stood on tip-toe and kissed his pale cheek. No game this time. It was a gesture of gratitude, and farewell.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

He inclined his head, turned in his gracefully abrupt way, and started across the airport floor as she gave the woman at the counter a tight-lipped smile.

 _And good luck, Dr. Watson._

888

A/N: As usual, please let me know what you think!


	8. John

Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: And dear John is, as usual, the last to know. Please enjoy the final chapter of 'Realizations'.

John

"The file on Irene Adler?"

"Closed forever. I am about to go and inform my brother, or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive – and thrive." Mycroft paused, his fingers fussing with the edges of his napkin, his eyes locked on John. "But he will never see her again."

"Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name. Just 'The Woman.'" And John couldn't deny that his predominant feeling now was one of relief. Irene Adler had turned their world upside down.

No – she had turned _Sherlock's_ world upside down. And John's had gone right along with it, a tributary swamped by the rising tide. The detective was essentially himself again – arrogant and prickly, experiments littering the kitchen counters, cold case files colonizing the coffee table.

Even leaning over his shoulder, Sherlock's body heat bathing his back as he bent too close (he was always too close, but John had grown used to it – the consistency was comforting, in its own way) to criticize his blog and object to his dramatic writing.

Yes…things were much better without Adler in the picture.

"Is that loathing? Or a salute? One of a kind. The one woman who matters," Mycroft ventured. In another man, it may have been idle speculation, but the doctor had never known the official to ruminate needlessly. John felt the frown crease his face, the words striking a mark he couldn't – _didn't want to_ – identify.

"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way." _What way, precisely? And when did I start considering it?_ But the truth was that since The Woman had entered the picture, John had found himself thinking about it more. A lot more. Perhaps an unhealthy amount more. "I don't think."

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

 _That_ was a truly ridiculous question. The city of Atlantis would be easier to find and unravel than the inner workings of Sherlock Holmes' heart. "I don't know."

"Neither do I," Mycroft admitted, and John's irritation was somewhat mollified to hear so openly that he had limits. "But, initially, he wanted to be a pirate."

John smiled. It was all too easy to picture a child Sherlock (who looked in John's imagination exactly as he did now, only shorter), leaping about with a wooden sword, all the manic energy of the adult packed into a pint-sized package and unleashed on whatever hapless toys or experiments came to hand.

In some ways, he'd never grown out of it. He still liked to tackle things his own way. Ever the captain – he still hated feeling dependent on anyone. _"I'd say he's heartbroken, but ah, well…he's Sherlock."_ Irene Adler had been out of their lives for nearly five months now. He seemed to have recovered, and it had turned into a story on John's blog, a passing flight of interest.

So John told Mycroft: "He'll be okay with this witness protection, this never seeing her again. He'll be fine."

"I agree. That's why I decided to tell him that."

 _Oh._ Not the truth, then. Which meant the truth was infinitely worse. For a panicked moment, John wondered if she was back in London, and forced himself to swallow the anxiety clogging his throat. He was pleased when his voice obeyed and came out normally. "Instead of what?"

Mycroft favored him with a sharp glance, and the physician wondered why he'd bothered trying to hide anything from this man. He was worse than Sherlock. Fortunately, he ignored whatever he'd heard cracking the edges of John's questions.

"She's dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded."

Two contradictory feelings slammed through John with such immediacy that he felt light-headed, and self-loathing followed so quickly it nearly swallowed him.

He felt sorrow – that a life should be cut short, and especially in such a brutal manner…and he felt relief. Relief that she was truly gone, that she could not continue to haunt Sherlock, to twist him up in knots.

He had never felt relief even at the deaths of the Taliban pinning them down in Afghanistan, taking his own troops' lives. There had been gratitude when the firing stopped, but no hint of pleasure in the manner of their reprieve. Who had he become, that her death could cause him even a minute fraction of liberation?

And then there was doubt. "It was definitely her? She's done this before."

"I was thorough, this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me. And I don't think he was on hand, do you?" The file slid across the table, Mycroft's deliberate hands placing it at John's disposal. "So. What should we tell Sherlock?"

888

The walk from the café up to 221B Baker street took approximately forty-one seconds, if one wasn't either bleeding to death (one minute, twenty-six seconds) or in a furious hurry (fourteen seconds). But even had it taken six hours, it was nowhere near enough time for John to determine what to say.

" _Sherlock, I hate to be the one to tell you…but she's dead."_ No. That would never do. Sherlock would spot the emotional lie for what it was…and John didn't know what to make of his own complex of feelings. He didn't want Sherlock deducing him, or why he might be glad she was permanently gone.

So telling him she was dead was out.

" _She's in America."_ Easier to picture himself saying, but the lie was still there, and would still be damningly obvious to the detective. And then Sherlock would want to know why he was lying, what truth John was covering up.

He still hadn't come to a decision when he opened the door to the flat and Sherlock rattled off his conclusions on the case Lestrade had asked for help with yesterday, eyes trained unerringly on some specimen under his microscope.

"No, it's um…it's about Irene Adler."

The swift look up from the lens – the rare look that meant he was eager to hear news, that Sherlock _hadn't_ already deduced what John was about to say, didn't know what was about to happen…

That look on his face twisted John's heart under his ribs. Not the pleasant leaps of adrenaline and camaraderie they'd always shared, but the jerk of pain, the knowledge that _this_ look of eagerness was not for him, but for _her_.

"Oh. Something happen? Did she come back?"

And it was in that moment, hearing the deliberate, forced casualness that betrayed too eager an interest, seeing the faint stir of light in those grey eyes, that John's world collapsed in on him.

It was like a building that had been gradually tilting for ages. The fall came slowly, then all at once. And it left only rubble in its wake.

He'd expected there'd never be anyone else. He'd had girlfriends – a string of four over the past year and a half at 221B, but Sherlock…

Sherlock was _his_. _His_ brilliant, mad, abrasive friend who couldn't stand anyone else. _His_ madcap partner in crime with no understanding of personal boundaries and no empathy for those who lacked his intellect and no patience for stupidity and _no_ interest in women.

" _Girlfriend? No…not really my area."_

John Watson had expected it to continue not being his area. Ever.

" _You jealous?"_ And now, standing in the kitchen, Sherlock rising and making his way over, impatient for whatever John could tell him about The Woman, the honest answer he should have given her in that abandoned warehouse was: _"Yes."_

" _We're not a couple."_

" _Yes you are."_ Her expressive dark eyes, the indulgent tone of her voice, had said it all. _Deny what you want._ Yes _you are._

" _I'm not actually gay."_

He wasn't…but Sherlock wasn't…didn't…couldn't…fit any category he'd ever previously made for himself.

He winced again, recalling Jeanette's angry words at Christmas. _"You're a great boyfriend. And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man. You'll do anything for him."_

Now, in the wreckage that was ground zero of his sexual identity, there was no way to cover the reality…and continue denying that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He dropped his eyes, looking away. He couldn't look into that silver gaze now…couldn't risk the reality that Sherlock would _see_.

" _I think you should know that I'm married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest…"_ The denial had been there, then, and the reality of it was confirmed now. The irony did not escape him, but he didn't appreciate it. After all his insistence – quiet, loud, privately, publicly, to any who would listen – who was it that wasn't gay?

" _I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."_

Sherlock hadn't looked disdainful. Hadn't turned her down as all of John's instincts screamed for him to do. None of the _"Not really my area"_ in his face when she had been gazing artfully up at him. No, his friend had replied:

" _I've never begged for mercy in my life."_ A dare. Practically begging: _Prove it. Make me._

She'd seemed all too happy to oblige, matching the challenge in his voice with her own. _"Twice."_

No. No…he would not ruin his life and Sherlock's by letting the other man know. He was John Watson – friend and interpreter of Sherlock-speak and endurer of his wild moods, shielding the world from taking their full brunt. He was his blogger. His flat mate. Two men living life bachelor style. That was all.

"No, no. I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs, he had to take a call."

"Is she back in London?"

John fought the urge to close his eyes and physically swallow the pain rising in his chest, tightening his throat in response to the intensity of his flat mate's impatient queries. Drawing on the discipline that had kept his hands steady in active battlefields in Afghanistan, he forced his voice back to even.

"No, she's uh…she's in America."

"America?"

"Mmm-hmm. Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Don't know how she swung it, but, uh, you know." John shrugged.

"I know what?"

"Well…you won't be able to see her again." He forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze as he said it. Now, ironically, the thought brought no relief. What did it matter, now, whether Irene Adler was dead, or oceans away, or right next door? John couldn't have him anyway.

A touch of confusion tinged the grey eyes fixed on his face. "Why would I want to see her again?"

At this, John smiled briefly. Perhaps they could make it all right, then. Maybe they could pretend that what he'd said to Mycroft was right – that Sherlock didn't feel this way. About anyone. Ever. "Didn't say you did."

The taut tone of the next question dashed that hope aborning. "Is that her file?"

"Yes, I was just about to take it back to Mycroft." He hated himself for extending the offer, but he had to…it wasn't fair to have hauled it up here and then deny Sherlock the chance. "Do you want to—?"

But Sherlock, for all his seeming interest to have John's scant news of her, just as rapidly appeared to lose his curiosity. The detective was moving back to the microscope, seating himself on the stool before John had completed the offer. "No."

 _Really?_ His heart sped up slightly. Was he wrong? "Listen, actually—"

Sherlock's hand extended, long fingers crooked as if to cradle something, his eyes back on the microscope. "But I will have the camera phone back."

John's heart threw a switch, stopped…and sank into his stomach. The camera phone. The innocuous article around which the entire drama had played. _Of course_ that would be Sherlock's choice of memorabilia. _"That camera phone is my life."_ "There's nothing on it anymore, it's been stripped."

"I know, but I…I'll still have it."

No. Not this. Somehow, possession of the camera phone was more intimate than the moment she'd walked into their lives completely naked. "I've gotta get this back to Mycroft, you can't keep it."

Sherlock's hand stayed outstretched, fingers still in their curve against the air, as if he were already holding the desired object, waiting. John gritted his teeth. He didn't want any reminders of Irene Adler in Sherlock's hands, in this flat…in the whole of London if he had his way. And especially not _this_ reminder, the most important object the dead woman had owned.

"Sherlock, I have to give this back to Mycroft. It's the government's now. I couldn't give it—"

"Please."

John clenched the phone in his fist…and gave it to him. Hating himself, because Jeanette was right, he would do _anything_ for Sherlock Holmes, even when it meant rending his own soul in two.

"Thank you." He still hadn't looked up. It was just as well. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would read in the twists of his face, but he didn't want the detective to see it.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I better take this back."

"Yes."

He didn't want to know. He didn't want to ask. What difference would it make, now, anyway? He heard his mouth forming the question: "Did she ever text you again, after all that?"

"Once, a few months ago."

He had to know. He tried to swallow the words, to keep the jealousy clawing its way up under control, but he _had to know_. "What'd she say?"

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

Still staring down through the microscope. John envied his friend's complete ability to focus. So…she had known she was dying. John thought about asking the other questions crowding the tip of his tongue, decided there was no way to give voice to them without drawing attention to himself, without changing how Sherlock thought about him, nodded, and retreated.

888

He handed the file, minus one camera phone, back to Mycroft.

"He wanted the phone." Mycroft didn't sound surprised.

"Yes. Good memories, I suppose." John tried to smile. He knew it had failed.

"And how do you feel about that, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked softly.

John froze. "I'm sorry?"

Mycroft's dark eyes were surprisingly understanding, even if his voice remained neutral. "You heard me."

"I don't…" John cleared his throat. It was a lie, and the other man would know, but the doctor would be damned before he bared his soul to the elder Holmes willingly. "I don't feel anything about it. It's his life."

Mycroft favored him with a long _don't be stupid_ look. "It's yours as well, Dr. Watson. You have been _very_ …devoted to him."

"He's my friend."

A peculiar expression crossed Mycroft's face. "If this is how you treat your friends, how do you treat your lovers?" He clearly didn't expect an answer. John couldn't have given him one if he'd tried – all thought had fled. "I wouldn't count yourself hopeless yet. Until next time, John."

The black umbrella snapped open and Mycroft stepped out into the rain. John stared at the place where he disappeared for a long time, before turning back towards 221B.

" _I wouldn't count yourself hopeless yet."_ What had Mycroft divined? What had _he_ seen? What did that mean?

John shook himself as he started up the stairs. Games within games within games. Mycroft was worse than Sherlock by an order of magnitude. And the doctor didn't have the energy to guess at what the British government might have been suggesting.

What he did know was that he would have to bear and endure in silence. Whatever happened, Sherlock could never learn the knowledge that had branded itself on John's soul.

888

A/N: And so ends the third tale. Please let me know what you think! There is one more story in this series, titled, appropriately, 'Conclusions'. I have, however, written only about half of it, so it will not be appearing here immediately, as I no longer like to post works in progress. I will however, be publishing two pieces that are follow-ups and companions to 'Unwanted Revelations', one called 'Precipice' and the other 'Unimaginable', both treating _The Reichenbach Fall_. Thank you so much for reading!


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